


what air is to fire

by talriconosco



Series: essential, and destructive [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Corporal Punishment, Daddy Issues, Duelling, Dysfunctional Relationships, Father Figures, Gen, Lafayette as unwilling mediator, Meet me inside, Reconciliation, References to Military Discipline, no really this is mostly talking about feelings, period-typical violence, references to slavery, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talriconosco/pseuds/talriconosco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Meet me inside!"</p><p>Laurens shoots Lee, and after that...well, after that, George tries his best. Perhaps it is too little, too late. Perhaps it is just enough, just in time to change everything.</p><p>  <i>There are a few ways this can go, and most end with Hamilton gone, back to his wife, leaving George here without counsel and much the worse for the loss. George can envision the two of them, ten years from now, war over, divided by a mountain of words unsaid and relationship limited to the barest of formal letters and well wishes from each others’ wives. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

George is livid, red with it, and it’s all he can do to keep a level tone on the field as he sends Lee away for a doctor.

He knows (knows!) that for all that Laurens took the shot, it’s Hamilton who is most responsible. He’s furious at both, but it’s Hamilton he orders inside.

George is furious, yes, but also tired—Hamilton is unfailingly rash and borderline insubordinate on the best of his days, and for that to have escalated now into a duel—George’s chest is tight with it, a draining mixture of fear and rage, because the last thing he wants or needs is one of his family, crumpled on the field, shot through by any one of the men Hamilton can’t stop offending.

George stalks inside, confident that, if nothing else, Hamilton follows. Once in his office, George strides behind his desk and grabs the top of the chair for support, knuckles white. He exhales through his teeth; Hamilton is standing on the other side of the desk, as ordered, looking not the least bit ashamed of himself.

The boy is all of twenty-one, hot-headed and foolish despite his fierce skill with a pen. He's hardly full-grown, and appears a child in countenance and stature next to George. Despite that, he's cutting, brilliant, and George has relied on his counsel more than any other's since that first day in '77. Hamilton is irreplaceable, if flawed, and it's that knowledge that infuriates George more than any other; he cannot believe, cannot accept, that Hamilton would so loosely and irresponsibly risk his own life on a dueling field for a cause so lowly as George's own reputation.

(But then, George remembers being twenty-one, surrendering at Fort Necessity, awash in his own failures. George can remember the strength of his emotions then, how shame burned hot in his stomach and his face, how he thirsted for a chance at redemption, a chance to prove himself again and earn back his commission.)

“Son,” George starts, forcing himself to speak in a measured tone when he wishes to scream, to reach out and shake Hamilton by the shoulders until he sees sense. 

“Don’t call me son,” Hamilton retorts, anger in his dark eyes, and whatever George was going to say next _(you don’t need to defend my reputation, I need you alive)_ disappears in the force of his emotions at Hamilton’s casual disregard. George brought Hamilton into his family, for heaven’s sake, he and Laurens and the other aides, and they’ve been the better for it. George staunchly believes that.

And Hamilton slouches before him, throwing it all away—

George waits a beat before replying, to compose himself.

“You will stand at attention and be silent, Colonel,” he says, loud and firm, allowing his voice to boom through his office. “That is an order from your Commander.” 

“Sir.” Hamilton bites out, and he straightens with a frown, snapping his shoulders smartly back. 

George stays standing, too, drawing himself up to loom over Hamilton. There are a few ways this can go, and most end with Hamilton gone, back to his wife, leaving George here without counsel and much the worse for the loss. George can envision the two of them, ten years from now, war over, divided by a mountain of words unsaid and relationship limited to the barest of formal letters and well wishes from each others’ wives.

George grips and releases the chair, hands flexing in frustration; finally, he takes off his hat and allows himself the otherwise inexcusable lapse in propriety of throwing it viciously to the side. The force of it knocks over a glass that George had left on the side table, and Hamilton flinches at the noise.

“Don’t speak, Colonel,” George warns, slamming his hands down on the desk. “Imagine, if you will, how I felt this afternoon when a man—not one of my own, mind you—rode up and stammered that two of my aides were engaged in a duel. A duel. In a time of war, when every councilor and officer is required—mind your look, Colonel, your opinions of General Lee are neither appropriate or desired at this juncture.”

Hamilton stares straight ahead, mouth pursed, and he barely looks chastened, but George is only just getting started, and damn propriety, damn silence; if anyone’s listening at the door or outside George welcomes it, hopes that the added shame will finally get a message through to Hamilton’s stubborn mind.

“And then I arrive, and my aides have already dueled; and not only that, but wounded the General, and it was reported to me that this grievous offense was carried out in my name!” George can’t help but punctuate this by banging his fist on the desk.

“Sir, we—”

“SILENCE, Colonel,” George roars. Hamilton’s eyes drop to stare at the floor. 

George takes a measured breath, then another. 

“Remember this, Hamilton. I am perfectly capable of defending my own reputation and honor, and have indeed been doing so since well before your own birth,” George continues, finally. “You are expressly forbidden from engaging in combat on my behalf, from this day forward. I will not have you on the field, not as you were today. You will not duel again, not while I draw breath, and not after. Am I understood?”

Hamilton nods, tightly. Though circumstances might typically require a verbal response, George finds himself relieved that Hamilton didn’t try; George isn’t done yet.

“Your behavior today was reckless and inexcusable. You put yourself and Laurens at risk, as well as the others, and any success from Lee would have robbed me of two of my most valuable aides during this, our crisis of war. Is our independence such a worthless cause to you, then, Hamilton, as to risk its success on a perceived affront?”

Hamilton bows his head and shakes it, slowly.

“Do you not realize that your life is of value not only to yourself, but to your General? Your wife? The men with whom you share bonds of friendship? You act so quickly to throw that away and render our affection for you, earned through your actions, to grief. Mrs. Hamilton will be much aggrieved to hear of today’s events, as will her father, undoubtedly,” George continues. “You typically make up in wit what you lack in years, but today has been a notable failure on that account.”

He notes, distantly, that he’s crowding over the desk, leaning into Hamilton’s space; he can see Hamilton swallow, can see the beads of perspiration forming on his brow. George doesn’t stop, just leans in closer.

“I find myself wholly and utterly disappointed in you, son,” George says, lowering his voice. Hamilton flinches again, not from the action this time but from the words, George’s words. “In addition to the duel, you have shown ongoing disrespect and insubordination. If you were any other soldier, I’d have had you flogged and drummed out of camp by now.”

Hamilton pales, but George is not sorry.

“You may speak, Colonel, but I might suggest you mind your tone,” George says, eventually, and he straightens, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hamilton licks his dry lips and waits a moment before opening his mouth.

“Sir,” Hamilton says stiffly, and George can tell he’s holding back a retort, an ‘I’m not your son,’ but Hamilton apparently thinks better of it. “Your points are well-taken and I apologize for my actions. I submit myself to your judgment,” Hamilton continues. “If Your Excellency deems my dismissal an appropriate recourse, I shall accept without complaint.”

“Hamilton. I’m not dismissing you,” George responds with no small amount of frustration. “Have you not just heard my own words regarding your value to this campaign?”

“I did, sir,” Hamilton acknowledges, eyes still downcast, “However, I would not impose my presence upon you, if it is found unwelcome.”

 _‘You are not unwelcome,’_ George wants to say, thinks he should say, but in truth, he’s still angry; the duel (they shot Lee, for heaven’s sake, _shot him_ ) and his own fear regarding Hamilton and Laurens’ fates are still to raw in his chest for him to ignore.

George settles on “You are not dismissed,” delivered curtly, and Hamilton stands up a little straighter in response. “I invited you into my family, and I do not intend to dismiss you short of your own choice. This is a time of war, Hamilton, and I need you here, to serve.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hamilton says, quiet for once, though from the way he’s glancing up at George’s face and away again George can tell he is gearing up to talk.

“Say your piece, Colonel,” George allows it with a wave, and, suddenly tired, pulls out his chair and sits down. He leaves Hamilton standing at attention, of course, because the boy could use repeated lessons in respect.

“Begging your pardon for my frank response, sir,” Hamilton begins, and George sighs inwardly because that is never a good sign; especially not just now, when he’d thought Hamilton was ready to acknowledge his own wrongdoing. “I find I must admit that I am not conscious of disrespecting you, who you must know I admire, and in particular I note that my intentions regarding Lee were not to dishonor you or cause you concern regarding your staff. But since you have felt it necessary to tell me of the effects of my actions, I have no choice but to realize that the consequences of such were graver than I had…anticipated. I must repeat my most humble apology, your Excellency.”

George is pleasantly surprised, and mollified, but Hamilton’s not done, and George can almost sense that Hamilton must be twisting his hands behind his back, nervous.

“I must confess, sir, I…do not know how to move forward from this error,” Hamilton says, next, and George…well, George hasn’t thought too far ahead on that count, either, for though initially he’d intended to demand an apology and send Hamilton away for the night for them both to calm down, his words had progressed further than that. George realizes too late that somewhere behind them there had been a precipice, of disappointment or shame, cruelly but justly verbalized without thought to the ensuing fall.

“Through this position or our…r-relationship,” Hamilton struggles to even say the word, George notices with dismay, “I have not intended or desired to acquire any special preference or treatment from your Excellency or indeed the Army. I must therefore entreat you to set aside any p-personal attachments and handle this affair as you would for any other soldier, for I—I do not believe I can…continue as though nothing has changed, when I have so acted to lose your confidences.”

“I will not drum you out, Hamilton,” George repeats. “If you should attempt to resign, I do not intend to accept. It is not special treatment; it is a plain rendering of facts; as commander in chief, I require your assistance moving forward."

“Then have me flogged,” Hamilton interrupts, voice loud with frustration. “For I cannot move forward until I know that I have taken steps to be returned to your regard.”

His eyes are dark and boring into George’s own, and George can tell by the flare of his nostrils that Hamilton is holding position by the skin of his teeth.

“I cannot have you flogged; you are my aide-de-camp. I will not tie you to a post and allow the men to witness such an affair. You forget that your failures reflect back on me—”

“Then you do it, here and now,” Hamilton interrupts, again, and now he has broken position; his fingers flying to the buttons on his jacket, still muddied from the dueling field, and before George can respond, Hamilton is standing in shirt and breeches, chin raised obstinately. 

George puts one hand to his own forehead, rubs at his temple. He cannot agree—the very idea is ludicrous.

“Sir, I beg you,” Hamilton, again. “I have lost your esteem and I beg your indulgence in regaining it. I understand that I will have to demonstrate my sincerity in actions in coming days, but I request to…to start by putting this affair behind us, as any other soldier would have the opportunity.”

With that, Hamilton is pulling off his shirt, and before George can think to stop him, he’s standing bare-chested and slight in recognition of his own disgrace. Hamilton’s hands are shaking, and it is this sight, more than anything, that forces George’s realization of the boy’s depth of emotion.

George opens his mouth to respond, still unsure of what he will say—what he will do—when, conveniently or disastrously, Lafayette announces his presence with a loud knock and call for the General.

Lafayette does not wait to enter, as is custom with their intimacy, though in this moment George fervently wishes he had thought to maintain barriers of propriety with all of his aides. 

“Your Excellency,” Lafayette starts, and he’s two steps into the room before the door swings shut behind him and he draws up short, having noticed Hamilton’s shirtless form and George’s own countenance. “Merde. My apologies, General, I will depart,” Lafayette murmurs, looking away, but before he can leave a hand—Hamilton’s—grabs his sleeve.

“No, stay, please,” Hamilton says, and George can see his fingers are white-knuckled where he’s holding onto Lafayette’s wool coat. “You are familiar with what happened today?” Hamilton continues, without waiting for George’s approval.

Lafayette opens and closes his mouth, apparently thinking better of answering. George waves a hand in permission; he’s not sure what Hamilton’s goal is but he cannot imagine his own delaying of Lafayette will be particularly productive.

“The duel, Alexander? I am familiar,” Lafayette responds with a frown, and George spares a moment to thank God that not all of his aides have descended into madness.

“I have requested that the General reprimand me, as he would order punishment done to any other soldier exhibiting the same behaviors,” Hamilton continues, stammering, a flush rising in his face. He soldiers on without a pause. “As circumstances dictate, we require a…witness, to maintain the protocol according to the code of conduct.”

“For heaven’s sake, Hamilton, I haven’t agreed to anything,” George mutters, but it is lost in the sound of Lafayette’s puzzled, somewhat indignant response.

It devolves into French, after that, and though George doesn’t understand the bulk of the words, he can make out that Lafayette is both appalled by Hamilton’s general behavior and in disagreement with Hamilton regarding the method by which his trespasses should be rectified. Hamilton wins, however, and after a minute’s flurry of conversation they both refocus on George. 

“The Marquis has agreed to serve as witness,” Hamilton says, squaring his bare shoulders. “Insubordination carries fifty lashes, disrespect another fifty, and dueling up to two hundred at the discretion of the commanding officer, if it will oblige you, sir.”

“Enough,” George says, raising a hand in horror at Hamilton’s proposed sentence. “I refuse to flay you alive, son.”

“Your Excellency,” Hamilton returns, forging ahead. “I then must resign, I cannot otherwise atone for my callous behavior. I believe that neither the one of us would be satisfied, to return to your study on the morrow with no change in our relation but for the destruction that my actions have wrought.”

George opens his mouth to respond, to protest, to deny the resignation; but Hamilton’s last sentence plays back in his mind. _Neither the one of us would be satisfied._

The bulk of George’s fury is gone, dissipated by Hamilton’s stubborn arguments for his own dismissal, but George remains angry, at the back of his mind, and he cannot deny that something has changed. A boundary crossed, a precipice leaped, into an unforgiving and unfamiliar land.

“If I may, your Excellency, Alexander,” Lafayette interjects, tentatively. “Could this not be solved in a more gentle fashion, as within a family?”

Hamilton goes pale, and George can instantly tell that any punishment drawn from such a suggestion, bearing the hint of a filial relationship, will yield more remorse and regret from Hamilton’s soul than a thousand lashes could against his skin.

And this, George can do; he was thrashed often enough, by his father and then by Lawrence, and he’s had a firm hand in raising Jacky all these years. For better or worse, George long-since accepted the occasional need to use the rod. George doesn’t know Hamilton’s history, and has indeed never met a boy so reticent to divulge his own origins, but he has gleaned enough from Hamilton’s conspicuous silences and from slips by Laurens and Lafayette over the years to know that Hamilton is bastard-born, was orphaned young, and was likely molded by any number of heavy-handed men and headmasters.

Perhaps Hamilton will, against all odds, respond.

“That is acceptable to me, sir,” Hamilton says, finally, raising his chin again.

“And there will be no talk of going home, no talk of resignation?” George asks.

“No, sir. With your agreement, I will consider it my duty to continue making amends through loyal and honest service,” Hamilton answers.

With that, George nods in tacit agreement. Hamilton relaxes a fraction, though he clearly remains on edge; George has long since concluded that Hamilton feared dismissal and the resulting excommunication from the war effort much more than any physical or verbal chastisement, as evidenced by his foolish desire to take three hundred lashes.

“You are dismissed with thanks, Lafayette,” George says, and when Hamilton opens his mouth to protest George shakes his head, firmly, and continues. “In my family, such events were—are—conducted privately, as the goal is not shame but reconciliation.”

“With your permission, your Excellency,” Lafayette nods, relief apparent on his face, and with a last line of hissed French at Hamilton (George catches only ‘lucky’ and ‘you fool’), he leaves, quickly.

Then it’s the two of them, George and Hamilton, and the silence that hangs between.


	2. Chapter 2

The silence lingers, broken only by Hamilton’s ragged breaths.

“Damnation,” George says, finally, for despite his personal feelings on cursing, he can think of no other way to start. In another situation, Hamilton might have laughed in response; instead, he flinches.

George refuses to be sorry for his own words, uttered out of truthful concern, but he’s man enough to acknowledge that perhaps his method of delivery had been flawed. The Hamilton that stands before him, shirtless and still, is nothing like the Little Lion, full of passionate invective and creative insults for the British, Lee, the weather, or whatever unfortunate messenger has brought the most recent letter with bad news to Washington’s headquarters.

But this new Hamilton might think twice before starting a duel, George reminds himself, and that’s the crux of it, is it not? George closes his eyes briefly, remembering for not the first time his frantic ride to the dueling field, expecting to find one or the both of them bloodied and insensate. 

George sighs, forcing himself back to the present. “If it is amenable to you, I would commence this…affair now, before the Marquis assumes we have killed each other and left him and the Baron in charge.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says, tone numb, and George realizes that this will be an uphill battle, regardless of the remorse Hamilton has already expressed. Hamilton is stubborn and closed-off to George on the best of days, and he’s always been hasty to avoid personal dependence. He’ll talk about almost anything except himself, and he’s declined every one of George’s near-weekly invitations to join him, Martha, and Lafayette for a private supper.

This, a thrashing like a child, like _George’s_ child—well, George had seen Hamilton’s face when Lafayette suggested it, in the instant before Hamilton raised his shield with his chin. George does not wager, but if he did, he would place a bet that this will just close Hamilton off further. 

Better than a public flogging, or God forbid losing Hamilton entirely, George thinks, and damn it all, it’s George’s own fault for mentioning the idea of punishment in the first place.

Hamilton shifts, drawing George’s attention. He’s still pale, and what muscles George can see in his chest and arms are tight as cord.

“Relax, son. I will do you no permanent harm,” George says.

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton repeats, though it is clear from his stance that he has not relaxed at all.

 _There’s nothing for it now,_ George thinks. He stands up without further hesitation and removes his thick leather belt.

“Bend over, then,” George says.

Hamilton pinks, but he follows direction without complaint, bending so that his hands are flat upon George’s desk. _Hamilton’s_ desk, in truth, for on a typical evening Hamilton is much more apt than George to be seated, quill in hand, scrawling faster than George can think.

George steps around the desk and in place behind Hamilton, who George can tell from the measured rise of his chest is making a concerted effort to control his breaths. The first lash is the worst, George reminds himself, and after no more than a moment’s deliberation, he brings his belt down on the seat of Hamilton’s breeches, hard.

After that, the act itself comes naturally, for which George is grateful. George has no set number; he intends to stop at twenty, but Hamilton remains utterly silent, with not so much as a wince to betray the effects of George’s labors. 

Despite himself, George is frustrated; his own personal experiences have borne out that breeches offer little protection from a man’s swing, and George has no doubt that Hamilton is feeling each blow but refusing to acknowledge them out of misplaced stubbornness. This, after demanding George’s engagement in this otherwise unthinkable behavior.

After thirty, George stops to breathe. Hamilton doesn’t move a muscle. It is more that George would typically give to Jacky, but less than George himself remembers receiving from Lawrence on several unfortunate and memorable occasions. 

After forty, George’s arm tires of the exertion, and he lowers it, rolling his shoulders. When he raises it again, Hamilton must hear the shifting of his clothes, for he flinches before George has swung for the blow.

George closes his eyes for a moment—causing his own men fear has never been one of his personal goals, nor whipping a man until he cowered—but he pushes back his shame with the reminder that for all that he feels conflicted, Hamilton had demanded this, had forced George’s hand in front of Lafayette, had all but handed his own belt to George for the taking.

Hamilton’s flinch, though minimal, is enough to convince George to pause, and he decides he will end this at fifty. George decides that even Hamilton must accept that as enough, for it is on the upper limit of how a father would rein in a wayward son.

The next blows will be the last, then. George’s own father, before he passed, had insisted upon a verbal acknowledgment of one’s wrongdoing before accepting the end of the punishment, a tradition which (to George’s dismay at the time) Lawrence had dutifully continued. And if this is to be the end of the matter, handled privately, George intends to follow through. Hamilton would be unlikely to accept any less.

George walks back to the other side of the desk and sits down, belt still in hand. He looks directly at Hamilton’s face, noting the red-rimmed eyes and pale, sweating countenance. If George isn’t mistaken, there’s a tear track on Hamilton’s cheek. (George will not humiliate him further by remarking upon that; tears are a natural reaction to pain, and greater men than the both of them have cried.) 

“Look at me, son,” George says, and Hamilton does, slowly, and when their eyes meet George sees Hamilton’s shame. It is coupled with something that looks like…horror, which George can only assume is a result of sharing this level of intimacy and vulnerability with George himself, when Hamilton has rebuffed George’s affections and regard since the start.

George swallows, thickly, thinking of what Martha would say (you are a fool, husband, you have mishandled the boy from the beginning, it is no wonder he shies away from you now), and privately vows to do better. He’s still angry at them for dueling, yes, though the exertion of taking it out of Hamilton’s hide has significantly alleviated his frustration on that front. His disappointment lingers, but it is shifting from Hamilton to focus on himself.

George forces himself to continue, to see this through. 

“Why are you being punished, son?” He keeps his tone calm and level, requesting facts, and waits to see how Hamilton will respond, keeping his eyes locked on Hamilton’s own.

“I en—engaged in a duel, sir, and I was disrespectful and insubordinate towards my commanding officer,” Hamilton replies, voice cracking. “Sir.” To his credit, his response is level and even, a marked improvement from George’s own answers to similar queries, all those years ago, which were typically panted or screamed through tears, messy and shaking. George was neither particularly well-behaved nor virtuous as a child, despite public conceptions.

George nods. “And will you again engage in these behaviors?”

“No, sir. I will not,” Hamilton answers, shaking his head, and his eyes appear earnest; in that moment, George believes him, though only time will tell.

“Good lad,” George nods. “Then ten more, and your debts will be settled.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says, and to his credit, he doesn’t flinch when George stands, belt in hand, and returns to position.

George shakes out his shoulder, preparing, but before he can start, Hamilton’s talking again.

“Thank you, sir,” Hamilton says, low.

In lieu of a response, George reaches out to grasp Hamilton’s bare shoulder, lingering for the briefest moment.

Then it’s ten more, quickly delivered, and George sets his belt to the side. He stands still and watches Hamilton, for a moment, and doesn’t miss the slight relaxation in his shoulders.

“At ease, son,” George says, then, and he turns away to allow a modicum of privacy, walking to the sideboard and pouring two glasses of whiskey.

When he turns back, Hamilton is standing; he’s put his shirt back on, though George notices it is only tucked in in the front. 

“Sit and share a drink with me.” George gestures to the whiskey and the chairs by the hearth, and occupies himself with lighting a fire, for the sun has begun to set. He deliberately does not look at Hamilton, who shuffles over with much less than his usual, fluid stride, and who (out of George’s view) grimaces upon sitting, whiskey in hand.

A minute later, the flames have caught, and George takes his own glass and sits, facing Hamilton from a scant few feet away.

Given that it’s been less than an hour since George berated him into silence, George supposes Hamilton will not wish to be the first to talk.

“Hamilton,” George says, wavering between son and Colonel and deciding in the moment to avoid any form of address. “I consider the matter closed, and us duly reconciled. I very much hope you will return to my study on the morrow to move forward with our more pleasant and usual affairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

George can’t read Hamilton’s response, and continues with a sigh.

“You may speak freely, Hamilton. If there is to be lingering distrust between us, I would that you spoke of it now; consider my earlier orders to be a thing of the past.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Hamilton responds after a moment. “I am—grateful, for the opportunity to…demonstrate my regret for the harm caused by my previous actions. I appreciate your indulgence; I know this was not comfortable for you.”

“Undoubtedly more comfortable than it was for you, if memory serves,” George answers, dryly, but nods to accept Hamilton’s thanks.

They drink in silence, then, and George shrugs off his coat due to the growing heat of the fire. It’s not over yet, he knows. Hamilton will be on edge for weeks, if not more, and his wariness of George’s perceived affections is likely to build and poison their interactions if George lets it lie.

They’ve worked together for years, now, and with great success and respect. But the day’s events have reinforced to George that a barrier built of mutual niceties has long sat between them. It feels as though the barrier has collapsed, now, along with pride and propriety. 

“You have never particularly liked me, have you, son,” George says, finally. Hamilton blanches, and in that one, heart-sinking instant, George knows it to be true.


	3. Chapter 3

“Your Excellency,” Hamilton stammers, shrinking back in his chair with a wild look in his eyes. George can tell he’s fumbling for a response, probably worried to offend George further. “I admire and respect you immensely, and have the greatest confidence in your command and leadership.”

It’s not an answer, but George does not require one; now that he knows the truth, it is clear as day. It is a painful truth, to be sure, and George only wishes he had seen it before, that he had asked Hamilton _why_ , years ago, and listened in good faith to Hamilton’s responses. Has George been so blind, all of this time?

“Be calm. I am neither angry nor offended; just as any man, you have a right to your personal convictions,” George says, trying to forbear panic on Hamilton’s part. 

“Listen, for a moment, please,” George says, careful to phrase it as a request and not an order. Hamilton nods, loose strands of his hair falling into his face. The hand that pushes them back is shaking.

“I am imperfect, and I do not flatter myself to think that any deficiencies in our relationship are one-sided by origin. You have proven steadfast and loyal of conviction, and I…well,” George meets Hamilton’s eyes over the rim of his near-empty glass. “I cannot say I regret my earlier proclamations, for I spoke them in true reaction to your behavior at the time, and I will not apologize for thrashing you as you requested. Had I started a duel as a young man, my fate within my family would have been much worse. And do not think I have forgotten that I ordered you directly to refrain from taking such an action.”

“I deserved it, sir,” Hamilton acknowledges quietly, looking away and shifting in his seat. George spares a moment to imagine what this feels like for the boy, whipped fresh and raw and now forced to hear George’s innermost ruminations. 

He stands, takes Hamilton’s glass, and pours them both more whiskey; they will need it.

“Perhaps you did,” George confirms, handing his glass back to him. “But so too does every fool who determines that a duel is the best form in which to solve a problem. Impetuousness leads to destruction. Do you know what they said about me in London and Paris when I was your age?”

Hamilton shakes his head.

“They said I single-handedly started the war with the French,” George continues, and even now, decades later, the shameful truth of it stings. “It is not untrue, for I was a foolish young man set loose upon a frontier with my own command and no one to keep me in line. I made every mistake. I watched my men die, not in scores but in hundreds.”

Hamilton doesn’t have an answer for that, for which George is grateful; though he knows intellectually that the casus belli was no single event, there will always be a deep and visceral part of him that wonders what would have been if it had been anyone but him there in Ohio.

“I wish to apologize, for earlier.” George continues, after a time. 

“Sir, you do not need to apologize—”

George holds up a hand, gently. 

“I wish to. I wish to apologize for implying in my reaction that you were unwelcome here. I consider you a most essential part of my staff, and indeed the war effort as a whole. I must emphasize that it is only my high regard for you and your character that led to my words. My concern was, first and foremost, that you would have died a preventable death today. Your death would have lain upon my hands, son, one in a sea of thousands, but one that I would not—I would not bear.”

Hamilton swallows. “With respect, Your Excellency, I am—”

“Not my son,” George finishes, and Hamilton nods, face drawn tight. “No, you are not; I am aware.”

George drinks, the whiskey biting on his tongue, and runs his hand across his brow. He won’t begrudge the boy the statement, phrased as it was.

It irks him, that this bothers Hamilton so; no other aide or soldier angers at the word. Hamilton has never made an effort to explain or justify his aversion, but scrambles away, skittish. George has always thought it a trifle, an annoyance, because the others—Lafayette, Laurens, and their ilk—welcome George’s addresses and affections. Hamilton is an orphan, yes, but so is Lafayette. So are many. 

It has always irked him, if George is being honest, because Hamilton’s usual knee-jerk reaction of snapping at George _is_ insubordinate; he’d seen more than one other General frown in Hamilton’s direction after such an outburst. 

For all of his annoyance, however, George knows that there is nothing for it. Whatever has gone wrong in their relationship from the start is, by metric, at least half his own fault. He will have to change the story and cease feeding the flames, however accidentally.

“In the spirit of reconciliation, then,” George says, “Let us start with that. A compromise.”

“A compromise?” Hamilton echoes him, a rare hint of confusion in his tone. He probably did not expect George to be receptive, George thinks; did not expect the General to gentle his approach. 

George takes a sip and continues.

“I have no children of my blood. It is, perhaps, a defect of my age or behavior, that I consider my staff a family and welcome such affections with my aides. I make no excuse for that; if it is a failing, it is mine alone. As you have made your wishes on a form of address quite clear, I shall endeavor to oblige them in our discourse.”

“And in return?” Hamilton looks wary, though George can’t blame him for that.

“In return, you pardon me my mistakes; for I fear it is inevitable that they shall arise.”  
“Thank you, Your Excellency. I accept,” Hamilton says, faintly, and that’s that, George thinks. 

“Then it is agreed, Hamilton. I wish to only offer a final assurance that you do have my esteem. I would not have the words or actions of this night undermine us on the morrow, and as you said, I intend to demonstrate my sincerity in actions. This was likely the first of many conversations, but I will not keep you longer.”

George sets his glass aside and stands; Hamilton does the same, somewhat shakier. 

“You are dismissed,” George says formally, and then, as Hamilton nods and turns, “Please, for heaven’s sake, do not make me do this again.”

—-

The next morning dawns gray and bone-chillingly cold, and George wakes aching all over.

Laurens is the first to brave George’s study, knocking at half-six with tea and a crust of bread to break the fast. He’s pale and studiously gazing at the floor rather than George’s eyes. George has no doubt that Hamilton and Lafayette have shared details of the entire sordid affair with him, sleeping in a row on the bare parlor floor as they do.

For that matter, Laurens is likely to have heard; the clapboard walls are thin.

“Thank you, Colonel,” George nods at the tray.

“Sir, I—” Laurens stops, his face twisted with shame.

“At ease, son. I doubt there is anything you can say that Colonel Hamilton did not already relay. You are aware of my feelings on the matter; however, I will not have such issues of the past linger in our camp. Consider it over, with one warning,” George says, and pauses for a moment to allow his words to sink in. “If you wish to remain in this Army, you are in the future to consider any direct order forbidding Colonel Hamilton from action to also apply directly to yourself. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Laurens nods instantly, eyes wide. If what George has heard about Henry Laurens is true, the boy likely did not believe he would get off so easily.

“Good. Then conduct your morning rounds, and send me Hamilton,” George returns. Laurens swallows and exits, and a minute later Hamilton knocks, entering George’s study with likely more confidence than he feels.

“Good morning, Colonel,” George looks Hamilton in the eye.

“Good morning, Your Excellency,” Hamilton returns, equally.

“What letters do we have today?” George asks. Hamilton sets the bundle on the desk and sits, gingerly but without comment. 

“The most important from the Congress, Your Excellency,” Hamilton begins, “A truly ridiculous response to our well-reasoned request from several weeks ago regarding quartering in Philadelphia. They appear to have no conception of the reality of our status and the equipment required to continue this campaign.”

And with that, they’re off.

Things proceed as normal for a few weeks. George makes an effort to keep his side of the compromise, studiously referring to Hamilton by title, and Hamilton says nothing when George slips. It’s working, George thinks; and yet, there is still no affection between them. Hamilton seems no closer than before. 

And then, one morning, Hamilton strides up with a letter as George returns from a meeting with Von Steuben to assess the new recruits. George waits, shifting to shake off the cold, as Hamilton approaches.

“Your pardon, Your Excellency,” Hamilton starts, and when George nods, he continues. “News from Connecticut; Colonel Rygers succumbed to a fever, and the tenth battalion is in need of a new leader before they march south.” 

“God rest his soul,” George says reflexively, though he’s never met the man. “Very well, Hamilton, thank you. Prepare a list of possible replacements for my evaluation.”

“Sir, if I may, it would be my honor to—”

“No,” George says, without thinking, but in the very instant he utters it he wishes to take it back, for he sees the shuttered anger flash over Hamilton’s face.

“Very well, sir,” Hamilton says, tightly, and he spins on his heel to leave.

“Wait,” George calls, and if it were any other man he would grasp their shoulder in apology.

Hamilton stops and turns.

“I would be much obliged if you would attend me at my study tonight, Colonel,” George says, carefully. “For a more open discussion, as it were.” 

A beat later, Hamilton nods, his unhappiness still evident in the lines around his brow. “Yes, sir.”

—-

At the appointed time, Hamilton knocks; uncharacteristically waiting for George’s affirmative response prior to entering.

“Good evening,” George says; he does not get up, but gestures for Hamilton to join him at his (their) desk. He’s got the list of colonels before him, as promised; next to each, Hamilton had written a succinct (and biting, where necessary) assessment. Not for the first time, George had found himself marveling at Hamilton’s memory for names and details. 

It is yet another sign that Hamilton is indispensable, no matter how much Hamilton might wish it otherwise.

“Good evening, your Excellency,” Hamilton returns. 

“Regarding a command, Colonel,” George starts. “Let us compromise again. You may speak freely, and I will take no offense at your words; in return, I will ask your patience to hear me out.”

“Agreed, sir,” Hamilton says; he waits for George to nod at him before continuing, all in one rush of breath. “Your Excellency, I have served in the same capacity and at the same rank for nigh three years, and have been denied at every opportunity my own command. I wish to be treated equally with my compatriots, and in reviewing the records it is clear that other Lieutenant Colonels of my age and service have already distinguished themselves as experienced commanders. Yet you deny my request every time. Have I…” Hamilton pauses, and swallows, looking away for a long moment before his eyes lock back on George’s own, his chin firm and challenging even as desperation seeps into his tone. “Have I not proven myself worthy?”

 _Christ Almighty_ , George thinks, and if he were less a God-fearing man he’d have uttered it aloud. Not at Hamilton; no; the boy is right to be angry, and the only error in his argument is that it is in no part related to George's reasons for denying him a command. No, George would have sworn at himself, for allowing the issue to fester without explanation, and for assuming Hamilton understood George's reasons. For assuming he knew George's reasons at all. Instead, they've been talking in circles around each other, Hamilton asking and George denying him, over and over again, poisoning their interactions until Hamilton was forced to question his own achievements. Shame rises like bile in George’s throat.

“You have proven yourself worthy many times over, Hamilton,” George says instead, maintaining eye contact even as it would be easier to look away. “You have proven capable of leadership and—”

“Capable, but not trusted, then,” Hamilton interrupts, sharp and pointed, “Or…unsuited, due to my origins. Perhaps you would not have an immigrant leading a battalion of native sons?”

“Watch your tone,” George warns, hands balling into fists despite his promise to avoid taking offense. Blind as he may be to George's real argument, Hamilton must know that is not the reason, George knows he must, and to suggest otherwise—George tries to breathe, tries to remind himself that he’d agreed to free speech, tries to remind himself that not ten minutes past he’d all but picked Colonel Ewing for Connecticut based solely on Hamilton’s recommendation. He reminds himself that he wants Hamilton here, needs him here; that none of the other aides, much as George appreciates them, are a match for Hamilton with a quill.

Hamilton isn’t done. He’s near vibrating in his seat, all drawn cheekbones and spitting fire.

“My skin, then. They say in the camps that I’m a Creole bastard. Am I not white enough for Your Excellency’s approval? Am I to be trapped in your service—”

“ _Enough_ ,” George bellows, half-standing. George is secure in his own convictions regarding Hamilton’s position, and can truly say that he has never given the boy’s status, whatever it is rumored to be, a second thought. But that Hamilton would accuse him of such, without hesitation or restraint…

“Enough,” George repeats, once he can focus. His chest feels as though it's suddenly been run through by an arrow, piercing and keen. “You think so little of me, Hamilton, that I would withhold trust and a position you deserve based on—”

George cannot finish, cannot add _the color of your skin_ or _the circumstances of your birth_ , cannot breathe at all. Because Billy is at work, somewhere in the camp; because Hercules and Alice and all the others, and God help him, George doesn’t know how many, now, are at home with Martha. 

Hamilton’s gaze is challenging—he’s said it on purpose, George knows. George has not been deaf to their abolitionist talk. He couldn’t be, not with Laurens so vocal in his desire to raise his battalions in South Carolina.

It is a long moment before George can speak again, through the shame. He thinks, distantly, that although he had been the one to whip Hamilton, Hamilton has been the one to rip him apart.

“It is a moral failing of mine,” George says, a long minute later. “I do not deny that, and I have no defense. I submit myself to your judgment in this. Let us discuss it again, and I will listen, I promise you that."

George pauses, regroups, resets. "I would—I would first address your remarks on a command, as intended."

After a long, hard look, Hamilton accedes with a frown.

“You are within your rights to question my decision, and you speak the truth regarding other Colonels and their commands. Judging on your leadership and skill, I would promote you in an instant; I would promote you to General if I could,” George starts. He can tell Hamilton wants to interrupt—wants to challenge again—but George sends him a look, tacitly pleading for patience. 

“You are young, much as I know you hate to be reminded of that fact. Wherever you came from, however you got here, you are now my chief staff aide. Whatever charges you levy against me, let trust be set aside. I trust you more than anyone in this camp; more than anyone in this army, my wife’s son included. You have signed my name on more documents than I can count, and I trust you implicitly to continue. Again and again I have requested your counsel or commissioned you to effect a decision, and you have made the correct one.”

“Am I not correct in this?” 

“No, s—Colonel. You are wrong in this,” George answers, praying in the back of his mind that Hamilton listens, now that they have laid everything bare. “I need you here. I do not mean that selfishly; nor do I question your skills on the battlefield or your commitment to our cause. I know you are not afraid to die.”

“And yet?” Hamilton shifts; looking away. He’s listening, but he’s not convinced. 

“Look at me, son,” George says, slipping, but Hamilton swings his gaze back without comment. “What happens if we win?”

“We become independent—”

“No. What happens then?” George cuts him off.

“We rule ourselves—” Hamilton insists again, pushing.

“Who?” George is the challenger, now. “Who rules?”

“Those with experience in governing, or the military, those who have respect—”

“But who is that, exactly, Hamilton? The Lieutenant Colonel who died in a British ambush on his battalion? The Lieutenant Colonel who spent the last three years on a frontier with his men but no experience with the Congress, no treaties with the French, and no knowledge of how wars are truly fought and won? The Lieutenant Colonel who was famous within his unit but whose name no one—not me, not Greene, not Knox, not Franklin—has ever heard? To whom would you entrust this new era?”

Hamilton swallows.

“I keep you here—I need you here—because a command will do nothing for your legacy, and even less for this land. Our land. You would perform your duties to perfection, I know. But when this is over, when the Almighty judges among our peoples and when our new rulers gather, the commander of the 10th Connecticut Battalion will not be among them. If we win this war, and if you survive, you—my chief staff aide? You will be.”

“I don’t want your patronage,” Hamilton says, ever stubborn.

“Good, for I do not offer it,” George clips back. “You will make it on your own, Hamilton, I have no doubt about that. I will not build you wings, but for our years spent together, I at least reserve the right to tell you where the sun lies.”

His voice rises, perhaps more than he’d intended, and it rings for a moment after his exclamation. In the aftermath, Hamilton is silent.

“I’ve said my piece. I keep you here because I need your counsel in this time of war, and because I believe there are things you haven’t done; things you will do; and changes you will make to our country when this bloodshed is over,” George continues, quieter. “If a command is what you want, you may submit a request in writing to one of the other Generals—I will not tell them to deny you, and you have my blessing to live out your life in obscurity as the commander of the unit that once won a skirmish or stole a cannon.”

It’s a low blow, but a calculated one; Hamilton winces and chokes out an incredulous laugh in response.

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Hamilton shakes his head. “Your point is well made. I fear my…exuberance for a command was perhaps…” 

He trails off, a flush in his cheeks.

“Misplaced?” George suggests, gentler.

“You flatter me, sir. Misplaced, indeed.” Hamilton nods. “It is…if I have not said it recently, Your Excellency, it is an honor to serve on your staff.”

“The honor is mine, Colonel,” George says, and means it. “Now out with you, and mind you keep your curses to a whisper in the hallway. If I am to match wits with you again on the morrow, it is only fair to let an old man rest.”

“Of course, sir,” Hamilton smiles, standing with a loose salute. “It is only fair.”


	4. epilogue, in eleven parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **one more AU note. jefferson isn’t in france during the convention; he’s invited as a delegate.  
> **the coda is happy and sad and tragic and a lot longer than it should probably be, so thank you in advance for bearing with my self-indulgent need to change everything ever!
> 
> hit me up on tumblr @ talriconosco.tumblr.com!

i. 

There is no great shift; there is no seismic change that turns the tides of the war. But hour by hour, day by day, George tries, more than he had before, and Hamilton listens. Hamilton smiles more, and laughs, and he comes to Sunday dinner and he begins to accept George’s invitations to play chess.

They fight, voices raised late into the night, and on one day in February Hamilton is incensed enough to storm out, slamming the door. (George wouldn’t mind the opportunity to thrash him, in that moment, but he never raises a hand to Hamilton again.)

It ends up being unnecessary, because Hamilton comes back the next day, takes off his hat, and asks only somewhat grudgingly for George’s forgiveness.

They compromise. 

 

ii.

On the first day of March, Hamilton and Laurens are away to deliver a message to Knox. 

George paces, first an hour, then two, listening to the hollow resonance of his boots on the creaking wood floor. The sun is shining in, and the dust glistens in the air with it; winter’s not broken, not yet, but at least the biting chill is gone. It is a good day to be alive, George thinks; it is a good day to be free.

He kneels, then, and bows his head before his God, whispering a pledge to make reparations.

He pens a letter to Martha, written in his own hand.

He calls for Billy.

 

iii.

They lose Laurens just after Yorktown. George is the first to open the letter, by accident of fortune; he freezes and for a moment the words fade into scrawls of ink, illegible. 

It is senseless; it is empty of grace. George, inured to death as he is, feels it to his core. For a long moment, his memories are flooded with Laurens; the boy’s face, the boy’s voice, the eager acceptance when George gave him that damned command.

George says a prayer, braces himself, and calls for Hamilton.

The blood drains from Hamilton’s face; he does not collapse or stagger, but George can read him well enough now to know that he’s barely on his feet.

“It will get easier,” George offers, finally, knowing that the words are hollow in the face of unimaginable loss.

After, George returns to Mount Vernon a wearier version of himself. Hamilton goes back to New York, and for a time it is quiet.

George writes the first letter, asking after Mrs. Hamilton and the newest baby. Hamilton writes weekly after that, and George responds in kind.

Hamilton’s letters are melancholy at first; then, as he establishes a legal practice, filled with invective against his co- and opposing counsels. George takes it all in stride; he writes back about the estate, about the news from France, about rest.

There is no great shift, but week by week, life continues.

 

iv.

The summer of ’87 is sweltering. Flies buzz in the Assembly Room, the air thick with sweat and noise as the delegates yell their hellos to old friends and rivals. 

It takes weeks to get a quorum; George has secured lodging at a boardinghouse, for Martha remains at Mount Vernon. Mrs. Hamilton is likewise in New York; in the room next to George, Hamilton clatters and vibrates about at all hours, writing late into the night. After the first four days, George reads over his plans for the convention and insists that he invite Madison by for drinks. It turns into a heated six-hour debate on the merits of centralized banking. 

Madison comes by again, and again, shouting at Hamilton until their candles have sputtered out and the night has turned gray with dawn. George gives up on sleep entirely.

But by the time they have the delegates, they have a plan. 

More than that, they have the votes; George knows Hamilton well, now, and for all that the skittish, rash Lieutenant Colonel has matured with time, George knows that he has no chance of winning the South.

So, for months, George has drained his whiskey collection with Jefferson (who is scum, though George would never dream of giving Hamilton the satisfaction of saying as much aloud), with Madison, with Laurens père, with Butler and both Pinckneys, with Baldwin and Few, with Spaight and Williamson. 

For all that, George isn’t sure it will work, not until Jefferson knocks on his door late in the night before the presentation is to occur. 

“I will vote for you,” Jefferson says, standing in the hallway and inclining his head at both Hamilton’s door and at George. “I will vote for this…abomination of a plan.” He curls his lip in disgust.

“And in turn?” George asks, praying to God that Hamilton is asleep, a few feet away, and cannot hear George make a deal with the devil.

“When the time comes, you will vote for me,” Jefferson smiles, twisted, and shows his teeth.

***

The next morning, George asks Hamilton to let Madison do the talking, even though they drafted the document together. Hamilton frowns and protests, and it is only a snapped line about trust from George that quiets him into grudging acceptance.

They sit together on the platform and listen, George silent and Hamilton vibrating. 

Madison is concise, succinct, and calm, and George can feel the very air change as his words fall over the hushed crowd. _All persons, all persons, all persons,_ the document reads, building a rhythm, singing to the rafters. 

There is a debate, of course, and it stretches for one hour, for two, for three. They adjourn; the debate continues in the morning, and again, and again. Hamilton and Madison stand strong; Hamilton perhaps stronger; they acquit themselves and the plan admirably. 

In another world, it would have still not been enough.

On the sixth day, George yields the floor to the senior delegate from Virginia. 

Jefferson stands and walks lazily to the front of the room, letting his steps echo one by one until each delegate’s ears are pricked. He waits until he has their full attention.

“I call for a vote,” Jefferson says, smoothly.

The men tense; for a moment, time in the room stands still. Franklin looks stunned. 

At George’s side, Hamilton twitches; his hand thrums against the table in a panicked beat. George can only imagine what he is thinking; likely cursing Jefferson for calling the vote too soon and steeling himself for the vote to fail.

“I second,” adds Baldwin, with a nearly imperceptible nod in George’s direction.

“Very well,” George nods. “All those in favor of the draft, say aye.”

Jefferson’s eyes glance to George, for a split second, and George holds his own face impassive. He cannot tell if Hamilton notices.

“Aye,” Jefferson says, then, calling it out loud and clear. He turns, bends, and signs his name to the draft with a flourish.

And then the delegates are standing, one by one, North mixed with South; and one by one, they are stepping up to the table in front of George and signing the draft. The _full_ draft, including gradual but complete abolition, as expansive and audacious as Hamilton had dared to write it down.

Hamilton grows paler and paler in shock, eyes blown wide.

“Your Excellency,” he whispers, listening to the votes in disbelief. “How—how is this happening?”

"Shh," George murmurs in response, absorbed as he is in ensuring each delegate has quill and ink.

(Later, when they’re alone, he’ll explain the whiskey deals; he’ll hold up a hand to gentle Hamilton’s offense at the idea that the wealthy and the landed were the only ones who mattered to convince.)

Hamilton signs, almost shaking.

George's signature is the last, and the largest.

 

v.

In ’91, instead of taking the children to Albany for the summer, Mrs. Hamilton--Eliza, now, at her insistence--brings them to Mount Vernon. George arranges for a week’s absence during the Congressional recess and insists that Hamilton comes along, though it takes weeks of letters to cajole him into taking a break.

They travel south together; Eliza shining bright, Hamilton haggard and thin, George, watching as they barely speak from opposite sides of the carriage. Neither looks satisfied.

On the second morning, he sets Martha on Eliza and tasks himself with Hamilton, prodding and poking until the man relents.

“Why must you always be correct, Your Excellency?” Hamilton complains, but he swallows down his pride and goes to pay his penance for prioritizing his work above his wife.

The children, meanwhile, have already learned to ride, fish, and swim. At Sunday dinner, harmony restored, Hamilton and Eliza agree that Philip should foster with George someday.

 

vi. 

“Mr. Washington, why do you call Papa Hamilton but Mama Eliza?” 

“Affection comes in many forms, my dear.”

“All right.” A frown; a nose wrinkle. “May I call you Grandfather, as Nelly does?” 

“Of course, so long as your Papa and Mama agree.”

Later, a cleared throat.

“Angelica asked—well.”

“I gathered she might.”

“You don’t mind?”

“She is a child of seven, Hamilton, and looks up to my Nelly; it’s quite natural.”

“Ah.” 

A silence, looming.

“Your Excellency,” A nervous swallow. “I know that these many years, I have asked that you…moderate your address to me. I…what I said and did, then, is no longer a reflection of how…what I mean to say is, it would be my honor if you felt it appropriate to call me…”

“Of course, son.”

 

vii.

George steps down in ‘97. He casts his vote for Jefferson, quietly and without fanfare, but Hamilton inevitably finds out.

He bursts into George’s office—the President’s office—with fire on his tongue, _he stands against everything, how could you, this will destroy us_.

They don’t speak for eight months.

Eliza writes, though. It is Philip’s fifteenth year, and she insists that despite Hamilton’s misgivings, he could benefit from a summer with George. Philip arrives at Mount Vernon as the spring breaks. He's as restless and hot-headed as his father had been, and George teaches him how to manage both the estate and his pride. 

Georges, himself twenty and an incorrigible influence despite George and Hamilton’s best joint efforts, teaches Philip how to seduce a woman in French and how to properly enjoy a bottle of whiskey. 

George sends Philip back to New York in the late autumn, carrying a simple, half-scrawled note. 

_when you are ready, son, i will explain._

Hamilton writes a week later.

 

viii.

In November ’99, Georges writes with his intention to enter Napoleon’s army, ignoring all previous advice from George and Hamilton; he seems determined to get himself killed. 

A week later, Hamilton writes that Phillip, seventeen, has vanished without warning.

Eliza is sick with grief, and Hamilton himself would be out of his mind with anger if it were not for toiling day and night as commander of the Army. In a rare moment of honesty, Hamilton acknowledges being spread too thin.

George doesn’t write back; instead, he and Martha load a carriage for New York, where they will weather the winter in Hamilton’s house. 

(No one gets sick.)

It takes George a month to learn the boy has sailed for France; it takes another for Philip himself to finally write an answer to one of George’s increasingly frantic missives, and two more for the letter to cross the sea.

_Dear Sir,_

_Please give my regards and apologies to Mrs. W and my dear parents. I meet with the Emperor tomorrow, for he does not wish to allow General L to leave. Georges quite stubborn & refuses to leave without his father. Paris colder than expected. _

_yr obdt srvt,_  
_P. Ham_  


“When he gets back, I swear to God,” Hamilton threatens, face white, letter held so tightly that it threatens to crumple. 

“We shall have to flip a coin to see who is first,” George replies, tight.

***

Philip doesn’t make it back until December ’01, a full two years after he’d run off. 

He misses his planned enrollment at King’s College entirely, but he returns triumphant from France with five living, newly re-monied Lafayettes and a signed letter from Napoleon guaranteeing their full citizenship and civil rights.

Hamilton writes with the news, and George makes the trip up to New York for the occasion, despite his age. He accompanies the entire Hamilton family to the docks, bundled against the wind. 

George has always written to Lafayette, yes, and George had personally signed orders to send money to Lafayette and Adrienne. He and Alexander had aided Eliza’s sister in arranging the failed escape, all those years ago. Still, there is--there has always been--a silent and unforgiving knot in George’s chest, a constant reminder that he’d been the one to sign the order rejecting Lafayette’s plea for assistance. He’d been the one to desert the French and leave Lafayette standing alone to face the guillotine. 

A single look at Hamilton’s troubled countenance tells George that Hamilton feels the same. In that moment, all those years ago, it had seemed the right decision; now, faced with the reality of the Marquis, George is anxious to be sure.

The ship is swaying in harbor, and it’s only a matter of minutes before the passengers begin to unload in a whirlwind of activity.

Philip emerges, older, dressed in a French style and with his hair tied back. Georges follows, taller and thinner than George remembers; a scar bisects his brow. Then a woman and two girls; the woman must be Adrienne, George realizes, and though she is wan and edged with sorrow, it is easy to see that she could have been beautiful once.

Then it’s Lafayette himself, brittle and older than George could have imagined. Forty-four, he reminds himself; of an age with Hamilton. But where Hamilton fills out his frock coat, Lafayette’s hangs loose; he looks ruined, starved, and for a moment George falls back to Valley Forge.

Lafayette steps onto the dock, with Philip’s assistance. Eliza and the children quickly envelop the rest of them, in hugs, exclamations, and—George notes with a wince—what sounds like Eliza’s fears rendered onto her son’s cheek with a well-deserved slap.

Lafayette stands alone, clutching at the rail for support.

George leans on his cane, heart heavy, and walks over. Hamilton disengages from the tangle of teenage limbs and steps to George’s side, pace slow.

“Mes amis,” Lafayette, never the coward, starts. His voice is rusty, broken, and more accented than George had remembered. “I never thought to see you again, and it brings me great joy to see you together.”

“As it brings me joy to see you, son,” George returns. “I am afraid that I must sully this happy occasion by begging your forgiveness; that in your hour of need these United States were not—I was not—able to come to your aid, and that you and yours have suffered as a result.”

George pauses, and Hamilton reels off something in French, as ever, one hand on George’s arm, solid and steady even as Hamilton’s voice quakes with emotion.

“It is neither of your faults,” Lafayette responds in English, shaking his head. “Phillipe did not say I was sailing across the sea to be greeted by fools. Do not mourn for what could have been; we have survived, and come here.”

“Come home,” George corrects, and that is enough; Lafayette reaches to embrace him, wetness in his eyes, and then he’s embracing Hamilton, laughing, and they are turning to join the others at the carriages.

It will be months before they mention it again, and it will be years before Lafayette can speak of prison. There will be moments when Lafayette’s stockings slip and George catches a glimpse of white scar, massed around his ankle in the shape of a shackle's bite, and George will freeze without meaning to, horror rising in his chest.

For now, though, it is enough to be home.

 

ix. 

Spring arrives in force, but Martha does not live to see the summer.

George is empty; broken. A great and animal pain beats in the maw of his chest where his heart once was. There is something unimaginably cold and cruel about this, that God had given them these forty-three years together and now stolen her away, all at once.

The Hamiltons and Lafayettes arrive just after; Nelly clings to Angelica like a raft upon the sea.

George is grateful for their love, grateful for the crowd of mourners that descends quickly upon the estate, but he cannot see them in the kitchen, cannot see them in the hallway, moving and talking around the empty space where Martha should be standing.

Hamilton finds him outside, gone as far into the fields as his cane can take him. 

“Your Excellency,” Hamilton says, and lays a gentle hand on George’s shoulder. When George turns back, there’s a moment of vertigo in which he sees Hamilton as he was, nineteen and desperate with ambition, shivering in a muddied tent during those miserable, bloody winters. But his hair shifts into focus, more gray than black, now, and George returns abruptly to the present.

“It is too quiet, inside, without her,” George starts. “You should join them. I’m afraid I am not good company, son.”

“I’m sure you said that about me more than once, sir,” Hamilton rejoins, gently. “I’ll stay, if it’s it’s all the same to you.”

They walk; George cannot say for how long.

When the house comes back into view, George flinches despite himself.

“It will get easier,” Hamilton says quietly.

 

x.

True to his word, bent over George's desk all those years ago, Hamilton never takes part in another duel.

 

xi.

The rest of the Jefferson administration passes smoothly, if distastefully.

And then it is Hamilton. Hamilton, unanimously. 

George needs help from the servants, now, but he can make the journey from Mount Vernon to the President’s white house by coach. He does, near-weekly, and they joke that Hamilton had allowed the capital to be moved because he wouldn’t have had anyone to argue with in Philadelphia.

(George is seventy-three, now. His hands have begun to shake when he doesn’t mean them to, and war wounds he barely remembers have come back to haunt his bones in the chill of the morning.)

At the very end, there is almost a war. Hamilton is furious at the British, verging on a declaration, and he sends a messenger to Mount Vernon at a gallop. George scrawls a shaky _don’t do this, you must compromise_ in response; by the time it arrives, though, Hamilton has already stepped back and taken a breath. He has hesitated. In the end, he sends former Vice President Burr to London.

“He’s the best lawyer I know,” Hamilton tells George, privately. 

After several months of negotiations, the British accept the President’s terms.

(George is eighty-one, now, and tired.)

When Hamilton and Eliza leave to let James and Dolley move in, George insists that they, William, young Eliza, and young George shelter the rest of the winter with him, Virginia being milder than New York in January.

Hamilton continues to write, as ever; in the evenings, the children read or run outside while George and Eliza play chess by the fire to the sound of his quill, scraping out the latest editorial. Hamilton claims he’s planting the seeds for the next election; Eliza reminds him fondly that it’s likely to be eight years away, and Burr will just have to bide his time.

“Madison is…fine,” Hamilton concedes, “But a term is only four years, and Mr. Burr should not have to wait for it any longer.”

On the 19th of February, when it has grown late and Eliza and the children are already sound asleep upstairs, Hamilton sets aside his papers with a sigh, standing up and rubbing his temples. George looks up from his book at the noise, questioning.

“Today is the day my mother died,” Hamilton says, quietly. “I don’t—I haven’t told Betsey. It was a very long time ago, and sometimes, I remember.”

“She would be proud of you, son,” George says back, knowing it to be true. 

“She would, at that,” Hamilton laughs. “Likely horrified at my manners, but proud.”

He joins George near the fireplace, pours them both a drink, and tells his story.

One evening in March, just like every other, George stands, slow and careful, to make the walk back to his room. And just like every other evening, Hamilton is there before George can take even one step, offering an elbow for what now feels like a long walk up the stairs and down the hallway. 

It’s an undignified shuffle, for George is smaller and weaker than he used to be and Hamilton, as always, is unkempt and smeared with ink. It is lucky that the both of them have had their pride mellowed by age, for this is far from a portrait of two Presidents. George would not change it for the world.

“Thank you, son,” George nods, clasping Hamilton’s shoulder in farewell as they reach his bedroom.

“Good night, Your Excellency,” Hamilton smiles.

George goes to sleep.


End file.
